Asunder
by R.C. McLachlan
Summary: Heaven has been torn apart. (Mirai timeline, canon pairings, original characters, ensemble cast, mature themes)


**Author's Notes**: This is the DBZ story I've always wanted to write, ever since I saw the first season on Toonami when I was in the 6th grade. I haven't watched an episode of DBZ in almost a decade, but the idea for this story never subsided, even after my interest in anime did. I'm glad it's finally found an outlet.

**Warnings**: This story takes place within the "mirai" timeline and contains: canon pairings, original characters paired with canon characters, slash (or yaoi), sex, explicit language, graphic violence, elements of horror and surrealism, and gratuitous misuse of Toriyama's mythos. The characters you know from the show will be fleshed out to reflect a more realistic style, which may be at odds with some established traits and characteristics. If this _ain't your bag, baby_, as Austin Powers would say, then you might want to skip this altogether.

As I am also at work on various other fan and original projects, updates to this will be slow, but they will happen. I am determined to finish this.

And that's pretty much it. I hope you enjoy the ride. Feedback is always welcome. :-)

* * *

Like most people, Arame Mar dreams in color. That isn't to say his dreams aren't mundane or weird or terrifying as well, because they are. From ages four to fifteen, he used to dream that his socks had taken complete control of the planet and made him their king. King Arame of the Socks from the Dresser Drawer on the Top Right. As he recalls—it's been years, so it's a bit hazy—he was a pretty decent king with a head for sock politics. Everything had been going well until war broke out between Cotton and Cashmere Microfiber Blend, which brought his monarchy to its knees. It had been fun while it lasted, a perfect counterpoint to the nightmare he would wake to.

The point is, Arame Mar dreams in color. Has always dreamed in color, even long after his time as the sock king. So when he finds himself on a hill in a world cast in the grays and creams of a faded photograph, he's inclined to believe it's not actually a dream.

Of all the places he's been to in his mind, he's never been here. It's not like anything he could find on a map, but he knows somehow that it could be found somewhere nearby, probably closer than he would ever imagine. The trees are untouched by the seasons and constant explosions, foliage lush and—like the rest of the world—in shades of gray, all standing steadfast against a dove-colored sky. Snug against the swell of the hill is a house, sweet in its simplicity with its both domed and traditional roofs, the smoke slinking up from the chimney, the laundry hanging out to dry. The garden isn't too large, but it's well-loved and filled with carrots and potatoes, soon to be dug up and harvested in preparation for the colder months.

"This is a home," he realizes aloud as thick arms curl about his waist from behind and pull him flush against a chest that feels more like a brick wall than anything. Hot breath sluices over his neck and a nose, slightly cold, burrows behind his ear. It feels familiar, but more than that it _is_ familiar. "This is _your_home."

"It was." It's murmured against his neck, rumbling like far-off thunder. "This is what it looked like the last time I saw it. My mother was cooking—something. Maybe a stew, something easy that would keep for days. Most of my memories of her are of her cooking. Or yelling. Mostly cooking. Isn't that what they say, though? The kitchen's the heart of the home?"

It's true. Arame's family were always huddled around the island counter, stuffing their faces with whatever was edible and within reach.

He reaches up and places his hand on one of the arms around his middle. "Where've you been? It's been a week."

The muscle beneath his palm twitches, a minute tell that anyone else would have missed completely. Something uneasy sparks within him, a split-second image of something that looks oddly like a crescent moon, and then it's gone. "Things have been… changing where I am. I had some difficulty in reaching you."

Arame says nothing. There are a lot of things he doesn't know about this man. He doesn't know his favorite color (although he's inclined to think it's orange), or his favorite food. He's never been introduced to his parents, doesn't know if they're still alive, if he even knew them. Where he went to school. What he did while the cyborgs wiped out most of the planet.

He doesn't know his last name.

What Arame does know are the important things. He knows the scent, a heady combination of earth and _burning_that never fails to get him hard and ready. He knows the strength in those hands, how they can be so gentle, whisper-soft touches that revere him, and other times act as clawed restraints holding him down to be gloriously fucked within an inch of his life. He knows the smile, has traced it with fingers and tongue, and how incredible it feels to have it directed at him alone. He could build an entire life on that smile.

He knows the important things. The other stuff doesn't matter.

"All right, Gohan," Arame says, subsiding with a grin. "How long do we have?"

Gohan smiles at him, the edges of his mouth twitching in gratitude. The scars on his cheeks pull taut. Arame knows the exact length and width of them, how the larger one is mottled in the middle, the core of a lopsided crucifix. He'd wanted to loathe Gohan at their first meeting—he'd interrupted Arame's dream of singing wine glasses, after all—but the way the scars stretched around his smile had been altogether too charming to ignore.

"Long enough."

They fuck on Gohan's childhood hillside, staining the grass with sweat and unintelligible promises, slow and unbearably bittersweet. It feels like the last time. It feels like goodbye.

Gohan collapses on top of him with a shuddering breath, panting like he's flown from Heaven to Earth and back again. Arame grunts at the sudden weight; he's had plenty of time to get used to it, but it's still a bit of a struggle to shift around until it's manageable. Gohan has this odd way of being as light as a feather one minute and becoming a tank the next.

"Sorry," Gohan mutters breathlessly, moving to roll away.

Arame slings an arm over his back, holding him in place. Gohan relaxes with a pleased rumble and tucks his face against Arame's temple, absently pressing his lips to the swell of his cheek. They breathe together in the comfortable silence that follows, content to let the night air—when did it become night?—lull them.

"Saiyan," Gohan says, apropos of nothing, his fingers drifting down Arame's side to stroke absently at his tail, which slinks out from beneath him curiously. "Do you know that word?"

Arame's dozing mind tries to define it and can't. His tail coils around Gohan's wrist and the tip tickles at his calloused palm lazily. "No. Should I?"

"Where I am, I get the opportunity to see things that most can't. Observation can yield a lot of insight to people, their tics, their origins. Right now, over eleven percent of the Earth's population has extraterrestrial ties, either through blood or marriage. Earth's been the way station to some races, a sanctuary to others, and a target to even more.

"The Saiyan race has a long, complicated history with our planet." Gohan strokes a hand, gentle, around the base of Arame's tail, and Arame couldn't stop the pleased snuffle that escapes him if he tried. "The Saiyans were warriors—vicious, merciless. Their strength relied not only in their individual selves, but in the many worlds they invaded and conquered. This isn't to say that the Saiyans didn't have their good qualities, because in some ways they did, but… to be a Saiyan was to hunger for power and the thrill of battle. The race prospered and their influence spread for many, many years."

"What happened to them?" Arame inquires through a yawn, dragging his fingers through the hair at the base of Gohan's head.

Gohan nuzzles at his jaw. "Along came a spider."

Arame swallows, a dry click in his throat that hangs in the air, and nods slightly for Gohan to keep going.

"For a while, the relationship between the Saiyans and the tyrant from another world worked. It was strained with mutual distrust and resentment, but it worked… until it didn't. As war-hungry and short-tempered as the Saiyans were, they were also pragmatic. The tyrant was tearing apart their world politically, economically, socially… pitting them against each other, destroying core beliefs. The royal house, especially, was dealt a significant blow when the heir apparent paid the price for diplomacy and was given to the tyrant as a gesture of goodwill. Many Saiyans stayed in hopes of weathering it, but some knew it was an unwinnable battle and left. Those that stayed… well."

He tries to conjure up an image of them but Gohan's vague storytelling isn't enough for even a brushstroke. His mind is usually more alert than this, always on, always reaching out to sink into every crevice and crack the universe has to offer, but there is something keeping him in a sort of calm haze. There is a buffer, somewhere.

"Those that left scattered across the galaxy, many banding together to find a hospitable planet with a similar atmosphere as planet Vejiita."

Arame snorts, because _honestly_. "'Vejiita'? Really?"

"Shut up," Gohan says lightly, cuffing him lightly upside the head. "A scout had been sent to conquer a planet called Earth years earlier, and some of the fleeing Saiyan groups went there. Instead of finding Earth under Saiyan rule, it was untouched, completely whole, and free of influence. They did not question it—who was left to question?—and the Saiyans decided to settle down, blend in, hide. It went against their most basic beliefs, but there was no longer a majority to tell them otherwise."

"Why are you telling me this?" Arame whispers. He doesn't know or like where this is going.

"How about 'Kerrupa'. Do you know that one?"

Her hair. It's all he sees. Long, beautiful, and blacker than the darkest night, wilder than any wind, untamed as any animal. It used to look so hard, haphazard spikes that went every which way, but was softer and more perfect than the finest spun silk. He used to grab it when she held him; she never minded.

"My mother." It hurts to say. The word is like an open wound. "Kerrupa was my mother. But how can you… she's _dead_, Gohan. She died fighting the cyborgs in Mairead City."

Gohan's hold on him tightens. "A warrior's death. It's what she would've wanted. It's what all Saiyans want: to meet their end in battle."

This is absurd. "No, you're mistaken. You're _wrong_. My mother… She may have been capable of amazing things, but she was human. My father—"

"Human, like my mother. But your mother and my father both came to this planet as infants. You and I? We're the products of two worlds."

"Goh—" Gohan's mouth covers his and effectively smothers his protests. It's a distraction tactic Arame can't help but fall for, so he closes his eyes and parts his lips, sucking lightly on Gohan's tongue. He would die for this man. He would do anything to keep this.

"My time's running out," Gohan rasps into Arame's mouth, pulling back to look down at him. Arame's heart gives a dull thud. "This may be the last time I see you. You had to know the truth, and I had to say goodbye."

Arame struggles to sit up, pushing Gohan away as the haze lifts and chaos tumbles in. The world around them is shifting. There is a deafening bang as tiny cracks spider their way across the sky, opening into schisms, shards falling to the ground. The earth is trembling and splitting apart; at the bottom of the hill, Gohan's childhood home crumbles like a house of cards. Arame shouts in horror and reaches out for it, but Gohan yanks him back and pins him to the shaking ground. Around them, the trees are melting into themselves like burning wax candles.

"No! Gohan, I won't let this be it!" He shouts over the breaking sky, dragging up all of his power, reaching out to try and contain the world. " Tell me where you are! Tell me what to do! "

Gohan stares down at him, a mix of awe and resignation on his face. _He doesn't believe me_, Arame realizes over the massive headache making itself known behind his eyes, the wetness he can feel trickling from his nose and ears. He doesn't think Arame means it.

"Gohan," he grits out, struggling against the hands holding his wrists down. He reaches out with his mind, his heart, and wraps them around Gohan, the tightest ropes he can conjure, and is met with an odd, but powerful resistance. It's wrong. It feels all wrong and unnatural, and it's pushing him back, but he's not letting go. He's never going to let go. Gohan closes his eyes and shudders, head dropping to Arame's chest.

The world around them is torn away, leaving them hanging in black nothingness.

Gohan lifts his head, his eyes suddenly flashing green, his hair bleeding to blinding gold. From the darkness, countless thin, spindly _arms_ wrap around him and pull him away, into the nothing until he is swallowed by it. Gone. He's _gone_.

"Gohan!" Arame shouts, but he's alone, and the black is giving away to—

_Find me, Arame. If there's one thing I need you to do, it's for you to find me._


End file.
